


In A Yellow Wood

by MsBarrows



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Duty, Friendship, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The army gathers in in Ostagar. A young militia-man from Lothering crosses paths with an equally young Grey Warden. When Lothering falls, Carver chooses a different path.</p><p>Written for the Dragon Age Big Bang on Tumblr. Art by <a href="http://feust.tumblr.com">Feust</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Carver!” Captain Pevens called out.

Carver dropped his cards face-down on the table and hurriedly rose to his feet. “Ser!”

“Run this up to the main camp for me,” the Captain said, holding out a sealed scroll. “Bring it to Teyrn Loghain’s tent.”

“Yes ser. Do I wait for an answer, ser?”

“No, just be sure it gets into his hands within the hour,” the Captain said, then smiled thinly. “You don’t have to come straight back down, just don’t forget you’re out on guard duty tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, ser,” Carver said happily, grinning widely as he tucked the scroll securely away in a belt pouch. Captain Pevens knew Carver’s sister was assigned to a unit based out of the upper camp; he was pretty much giving Carver tacit permission to go visit Marian.

The climb to the upper camp was a long one, making his way up the rambling switchbacks of the wooden ramps and platforms wrapped around the towering cliff faces that overlooked the pass. At the top he had to show off the leather tab stamped with his unit’s mark, and his name and rank burnt into the surface to identify him, and the sealed scroll clearly marked to the General’s attention, before he was allowed through the gates and into the camp. It wasn’t his first time running an errand up to the camp, so it only took him a few minutes to make his way to Teryn Loghain’s tent. The General himself was there, speaking with some brown-haired elven man – a mage, by his robes – and Carver kept back, waiting politely until he’d left before making his way forward to deliver the scroll. The first time he’d handed something directly to the Teryn, instead of leaving it with his adjunct.

“From Captain Pevens’ unit, are you?” Loghain asked as he accepted the scroll, and ran a curious eye over the crudely embroidered insignia on Carver’s shirt. “Local militia auxiliary?”

“Yes ser, out of Lothering ser,” Carver said, standing a little straighter and wishing he’d polished up and worn his armour instead of a tunic and pants, not that the well-worn boiled leather he had would take much of a shine, unlike the gorgeous set of Orlesian silverite plate mail the General was wearing. He knew the stories about Loghain; knew that the man had grown up in Lothering, that the rebels his father had led during the occupation had operated in the area, even knew which hill-top the majority of them were buried on, after their slaughter at the hands of the Orlesians. Knew that the plate armour Loghain was wearing had been stripped from the corpse of an Orlesian General that Loghain had defeated in hand-to-hand combat at the infamous Battle of River Dane towards the end of the occupation. He bit his lip, then smiled at the Teryn. “Dane’s Refuge still serves the best ale south of the Bannorn.”

Loghain’s lips twitched briefly. “Do they,” he said dryly, sounding just faintly amused.

“Yes ser!” Carver kept his voice as full of certainty as he could.

“Well, be sure and drink one for me the next time you’re there,” he said, and gave Carver a silver piece.

“Yes, ser!” Carver said happily, and quickly crossed his arms and dipped a shallow bow to him. Loghain nodded to him, lips crooking just slightly, before turning away and ducking back into his tent.

Carver found Marian with a handful of soldiers from her troop at the quartermaster’s, the group of them closely examining a rather plain-looking sword.

“I don’t know that I want to spend that much more for a sword just because he claims it’s enchanted,” one of the men was saying, as he tilted the sword back and forth, squinting down the length of the blade.

“How can we be sure it’s enchanted, anyway,” another asked suspiciously.

“That’s easy,” Carver spoke up as he peered over Marian’s shoulder. “Check the maker’s marks, if it’s really enchanted there should be a chantry sunburst stamped on it somewhere.”

Marian spun around, a wide grin on her face. “Carver! They let you out of your kennel for the day?” she asked, even as she pounded him on one shoulder with her fist before sweeping him into a one-armed hug.

Carver grimaced at her; she’d been teasing him non-stop ever since finding out about the mabari tattoo everyone in his unit had gotten. “Had an errand up here. Captain said I didn’t have to head straight back.”

“This that brother you’re always talking about?” one of the women asked, and gave him a head-to-toe look, then grinned. “You never said he was handsome.”

Marian grimaced. “Because he’s _my brother_ ,” she pointed out, then turned back to Carver. “Join me for supper? Barkus caught a couple rabbits this afternoon; I’ve got them stewing. He’ll be pleased to see you.”

“Sure,” Carver agreed. Marian said a quick farewell to her companions, then led the way to the palisaded encampment where her tent was, vouching for him so that Carver could get by the gate guards. She led the way down the rows of neatly-erected tents, until she reached the cluster of them where hers was, Barkus stretched out on the dusty ground in front of it and gnawing on a length of branch as thick around as Carver’s wrist, the dimples of teeth marks all over its surface making it clear it was his current favourite toy. The mabari dropped his stick and bounced to his feet as soon as he spotted Carver, and barked loudly in greeting. Carver grinned, hurrying forward the few steps to drop to one knee and give Barkus’ ruff a thorough scratching, laughing as he dodged the hound’s attempts to lick his face.

Marian lifted the lid of the covered pot hanging over the fire, and gave the contents a stir. “Should be about ready,” she said. “Nice and tender, too.”

Carver smiled. “You’re lucky Barkus likes cooked rabbit too. Ket in my unit, his Hailey always eats everything she catches, guts and skin and all. Growls if anyone comes too close, including Ket.”

Marian nodded as she rooted around in her pack, pulling out a wooden bowl, a tin mug, and a couple of spoons. “Barkus enjoys sharing,” she said. “At least with people he likes.” She spread out a bit of oilcloth on the ground, transferring several quarters of rabbit onto it before serving a mix of smaller chunks of meat and vegetables into the bowl and mug. Carver got the mug, while Marian kept the bowl for herself, the two blowing on spoonfuls of the good hot stew. Barkus sat with his nose hanging a couple of inches from his own meal, licking his chops in anticipation while waiting for it to cool down enough for him to eat.

“So how’re things down in the lower camp?” Marian asked.

“Boring. Lots of us standing around on guard duty with thumbs up bums waiting for something to happen. Half of them wouldn’t even believe there was any darkspawn around if it wasn’t for some of the patrols dragging back a few bodies.”

“A handful of darkspawn does not a Blight make,” Marian pointed out, scowling.

“Yeah, but some of the furthest-ranging patrols have reportedly seen… things. Areas where it’s clear the darkspawn have been in some number. And _something_ has the Chasind spooked. Dunno if it really is a Blight or not, but I’m pretty sure it’s more than just a handful of them around.”

“I suppose we’ll find out one way or the other if a _real_ battle happens; if the darkspawn _do_ want to go north, this pass is one of the few ways they can go in any numbers. If they push, it’ll be here.”

“You sound like you’re quoting someone,” Carver said, smiling.

Marian gave him a crooked grin. “Might be. Overhear a lot of talk while on guard duty. Mostly boring stuff, though sometimes our glorious leaders forget that the walls have ears and get into some pretty intense arguments.”

“See much of them? Loghain and the King and the rest?”

Marian shrugged. “Enough. We’re mostly kept inside the walls here except when we’re on duty, but Teryn Loghain and King Cailan are both hands-on types, you see them all over the place up here.”

“Nice. I hear they’ve visited the lower camp a time or two, but the only time I’ve seen either of them is when bringing reports to the Teryn, like I did today.”

“He’s all right, I hear. Bit strict but not one to waste soldiers if he can help it,” Marian said approvingly. “King Cailan though… _phwaaar!_ ” She shook one hand for a moment, as if the fingers were burned.

Carver grinned. “You approve of our King, then?”

“I do like a man who knows what to do with his sword,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “He’d be welcome in my bedroll any night.”

“Ewww. More than I needed to hear, sister mine. Anyway, mightn’t Barkus have something to say if he actually came sniffing around after you?” He smiled briefly, glancing at the mabari who was busily wolfing down his now-cooled share of the meal.

“Shades no, Barkus and I have an agreement. I ignore him sniffing around the royal kennels, and he turns a blind eye to anyone I chance to invite into my tent. Not that I’ve done any of that,” she added, wrinkling her nose slightly. “Don’t think much of most of the men in camp here. Some of the Grey Wardens and Ash Warriors aren’t bad for looks, but they’re both clannish bunches.”

Carver nodded, and scraped the last couple of spoonfuls of stew out of his mug. “I wonder how things are going back home.”

Marian smiled. “I’m sure mother is still happily terrorizing the town merchants. While Bethany charms them all.”

Carver nodded. “I miss them.”

“Me too. But at least we have each other here. And Barkus.”

“And Barkus,” Carver agreed, then set down the empty mug. “I should head back down to the lower camp; I’m on guard duty in the morning. Might take a wander around up here first though.”

Marian nodded. “Just don’t run afoul of the guards in the main encampment; they’re mostly part of Maric’s Shield and seem to have had their sense of humour excised when recruited. They tell you to move along, you get.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carver said, “I know. See you again soon, I hope,” he said as he rose to his feet. Marian rose as well, and hugged him.

“Aye, soon,” she agreed, and smiled. “Hopefully this will all be over and us on our way home to Lothering soon, right?”

“Yeah,” Carver agreed, leaned down to ruffle Barkus’ ears in farewell, and headed back to the main encampment, once again having to show off his tag to show that he wasn’t one of the soldiers who was supposed to remain within the palisaded encampment.

“Don’t linger on your way back to the lower camp,” the gate guard said sternly. “We have enough people here without those that don’t belong here lolly-gagging around.”

Carver nodded. “Just going to stop at the quartermaster’s first before I head back down,” he claimed. “Heard he has an enchanted sword for sale.” He headed off in that direction, pausing briefly to listen to one of the chantry sisters who was standing on a raised platform, blessing a small gathering of soldiers.

He did stop briefly at the quartermaster’s area, but only to pick up a couple of potions. He looked at the few greatswords the man had on hand, and frankly didn’t think much of them; barely a step above pot-metal, in his considered opinion, and as he’d worked for a while with the Lothering blacksmith, trading months of heavy labour for the sword he currently owned, he felt his opinion was actually worth something.

He crossed over the bridge to take a look at the Tower of Ishal afterwards, and was disappointed to find that it was currently off-limits; he should have come and taken a look last time he was up here, he grumbled to himself as he crossed back over the bridge again, eyeing askance the places where parts of the ancient stonework had crumbled away, and keeping well back from the open edge.

The sun was going down behind the western ridge of mountains now, so he found himself an inconspicuous place along the southern edge to watch it from; a far better view from up here than down in the lower camp, where the looming trees and towering cliffs blocked much of the view. It was already shadowed down there, he could see, the cook-fires glittering among the tents; almost full night already, while up here on the heights it was only twilight.

He heard a soft sigh as the last of the sun disappeared behind the mountains, only the fading colours of the clouds remaining, the eastern sky already given over to star-sprinkled darkness. Turning his head, he saw an armoured man leaning against a broken-off pillar nearby, all that could really be made out about him in the gathering darkness being that he had light-coloured short-cropped hair and wore heavy armour, a sword and shield slung on his back. The man straightened as he noticed Carver’s attention, and smiled crookedly. “Beautiful view, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” Carver agreed. “Too bad we’re not here for mere sight-seeing.”

The other man snorted and grinned. “Yeah, kind of wrecks the mood knowing we’re here because of darkspawn sightings and a potential Blight. The forest down there looks a lot darker once you start wondering just what might be lurking in the shadows.”

Carver made a face. “Don’t remind me. I’ve seen a couple of the darkspawn bodies that were carted back… you’ll be giving me nightmares.”

“I’ll be giving them to myself too,” the man agreed, then looked Carver over interestedly. “I don’t recognize that insignia… militia?”

“Yes. From the Lothering area,” Carver said, then explained further. “I’m from the lower camp, just up here on an errand. I should be heading back down before they shut the gates for the night.”

“You’re too late for that,” the other man told him. “Gates shut as soon as the sun went down; no passing through without an official permit. Hope you’re not on duty tonight, ‘cause you’re going to miss it.”

Carver cursed shortly. “No, but I _am_ on duty first thing in the morning. Seeing as I doubt the gate guard will let me back into the palisade to stay at my sister’s tent I guess I’ll have to find a corner somewhere to curl up for the night, and hope I don’t get shoved in the stockade by some overly officious guard,” he said, grimacing. “And hope the gates open early enough in the morning for me to make it down in time for duty. Captain Pevens will have my head if I miss.”

The other man grinned, and tilted his head back towards the interior of the camp. “Come on, you can spend the night by our fire; none of the guards will bother you there. I’m heading out on a patrol first thing in the morning and can see to it you wake in time to be out the gates as soon as they open again.”

“Thanks,” Carver said, and held out one hand. “Name’s Carver.”

“Alistair,” the other man said, and shook his hand. “This way.”

  
Art by [Feust](http://feust.tumblr.com/)

As they walked away from the edge and back towards where the tents were set up, the light of a torch revealed that the man’s armour was blue and silver, marked on the articulated chestplate with a griffon insignia. “You’re a Grey Warden?” Carver asked, startled.

Alistair gave him a brief crooked smile. “Yes. Don’t believe all the stories you hear about us though, most of it’s wrong.”

“I suppose that depends on what stories I’ve heard,” Carver said, smiling back and earning a short bark of laughter from Alistair.

“Good point. Anyway, that’s our fire over there,” he said, pointing ahead of them to a large bonfire not far from where the Teyrn’s and King’s tents were. “Most of the wardens are down in the lower camp, there’s just me and our commander and a handful of recruits up here.”

As they drew closer, Carver could see a collection of bedrolls near the fire, three of them already occupied. There was a covered pot standing beside the fire, the lid ajar and giving off a delicious odour.

“You eaten yet?” Alistair asked quietly as he removed the lid.

“Thanks, but my sister fed me earlier,” Carver answered.

Alistair nodded, and served himself a bowl full of stew, gesturing for Carver to join him as he sat down on a nearby log. “If you ever hear stories about how much Grey Wardens can eat, that one is true,” he said, before starting in on eating his food. “Though oddly enough so’s the one about us being able to go for days without food if we have to.”

“Giving away all our secrets, Alistair?” a deep voice asked, just before another man approached the fire out of the darkness. He had the dark skin of Rivaini ancestry, his hair pulled back in a short ponytail, with a neatly barbered beard. He looked curiously at Carver. “Who is this? He’s not one of mine.”

“Carver, a militia soldier mislaid from the lower camp,” Alistair said, waving his spoon at him. “Carver, this is Warden-Commander Duncan.”

Carver hurriedly rose to his feet and bowed in salute. “Ser!”

Duncan looked at him curiously. “Mislaid?”

“I was up here on an errand and lingered too late,” Carver confessed, flushing slightly. “I’m stuck up here until the gates open again in the morning. Alistair kindly invited me to share your fire.”

“Ah,” Duncan said, and took a closer look at the patch sewn on Carver’s shirt. “Captain Pevens’ unit?”

“Yes ser.”

Duncan nodded. “You’re welcome to stay for the night,” he said. “Alistair, I’ve a meeting to attend; don’t stay up too late, you have…”

“…a patrol through the wilds starting first thing in the morning, yes,” Alistair said, wrinkling his nose. “Never fear, I’m hitting my bedroll as soon as I finish eating.”

“Good. Good-night to both of you, then,” Duncan said, nodded at the pair of them, and disappeared back into the darkness.

Carver resumed his seat. “Thanks, I hope my being here isn’t getting you in trouble…?”

“No, if Duncan was unhappy about you being here he’d have already said so,” Alistair said, then scraped a final spoonful of stew out of his bowl, and rose to refill it while still chewing. He continued speaking once he’d swallowed. “He’s pretty easy-going most of the time, unless it’s anything to do with training or fighting. Those he has some pretty strict ideas about, as in, be prepared, be well prepared, always be prepared.”

Carver laughed. “Sounds like he and my Captain are two of a type.”

Alistair grinned as he resumed his seat. “Yeah, well, it’s a common type in the armies of Ferelden, or so I’m told; Teyrn Loghain’s influence. Though it’s not him that Duncan learned it from; it’s also a common type in the Grey Wardens, at least among those that survive long enough to become leaders. If you’re not well prepared, you won’t last long against the darkspawn.”

Carver nodded, and shifted forward to warm his hands at the fire. “So what got you into the wardens?”

Alistair made a face, and swallowed the mouthful of stew he was currently chewing. “A long story and one I’d rather not talk about, frankly,” he said. “What got you into the militia?”

“My sisters,” Carver said, and made a face as well. “I have two; an older sister named Marian who’s a bit of a rogue, and thought that joining the army would be an interesting opportunity to travel a little with someone else paying the cost of it, and a twin sister named Bethany who thought I should go with Marian to keep her out of trouble. What about you – any siblings?”

“Well, there’s a half-brother, but we weren’t raised together so I can’t say that I actually know him – or our father. He’s the legitimate one of us, you see,” Alistair said, frowning.

“Ouch. Messy.”

“Yes. Anyway, you were saying about your sisters?”

“Yeah… Marian, like I said, decided that joining the army would be interesting. Get some real training under her belt – more than what she could wheedle out of the village veterans anyway – see a bit of Ferelden on the King’s copper, and then at the end of her hitch she could decide whether to continue with the army, go back home, or become a guard or mercenary. It sounded like a good plan, but when word of the possible Blight down here started circulating, my sister Bethany didn’t like the thought of Marian being here on her own. I somehow got talked into joining up as well, though I came with our local militia rather than joining the army too.”

Alistair nodded, and looked Carver over. “What sort of fighter are you? I’m guessing from those muscles you swing something fairly heavy-weight?”

Carver flushed, pleased. “I do, though most of this is from working back home – I worked for the village blacksmith for a while in order to earn a decent sword from him. A two-hander; I like the weight of it, the momentum when you get her going… what about you?”

“Sword-and-board man,” Alistair said, smiling and patting the shield leaning up against his leg. “Those two-handers can be a bastard to stop, even with a shield; you have to know how to deflect the blade just right so it doesn’t end up in your face.”

Carver nodded in agreement. “Hit a shield right and you can turn it into so much kindling, or at least break the arm it’s on, after which it’s not much use. Two-hander is a slow weapon though, I have to worry about more agile fighters getting in close, and know how to make good use of my hilt and elbows if anyone does.”

“Exactly,” Alistair agreed. “Had that happen to me once in training – the getting the arm broken part – it was a couple months before I could use a shield again. Taught me never to brag around a bully,” he added, frowning darkly.

“One of the Grey Wardens?”

“Oh, no, most of them are alright, if a little rough around the edges. Wardens believe the only fair fight is one you win; darkspawn don’t give a damn about rules; fighting dirty or fighting fair, it’s all one thing against them. No, this was before I became a Grey Warden, when I was still in templar training.”

Carver gave Alistair a surprised look. “You’re a templar?”

“No. Not technically, anyway. I had the training and learned some of the basic abilities, but then I ended up becoming a Grey Warden instead of being sworn in as a Knight of the Chantry. Just as happy to be a warden, frankly – I didn’t much like the idea of becoming a templar. But being a ward of the chantry I didn’t exactly have any say in the matter. So you and your sister both ended up here, but in different units?” he asked, obviously changing the subject.

“Yeah,” Carver said. “Like I said earlier, I’m not interested in signing up for the long term, so while she’s in the regular army, I’m just signed up for our local militia unit. I’ll be going back home as soon as this is all over, which is more than Marian can say – she signed up for a two-year hitch.”

“Are you not interested because you don’t like fighting, or just that you don’t want to be a soldier?”

“I’m not sure. A little of each, I guess. I _do_ like fighting, but I want my fighting to have a purpose, you know? Not just be fighting for the sake of fighting, like some people seem to do. But I’m also not sure I want to be a soldier, either. I mean, fighting to defend our country, that does have a purpose and I suppose someone has to do it, it’s not like the Orlesians aren’t still thinking of us as bit of ripe fruit they’d love to swallow whole or anything. Just… I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a soldier. Too much running around in big groups and following orders. Being a guard might suit me better, that’s just small patrols.”

“Still a lot of following orders involved,” Alistair pointed out. “Not as much marching and fighting though, depending on where you work.”

“True, but it’s for a good purpose – keeping the peace and stopping crime and all that. Unfortunately Lothering doesn’t have any guards outside of the Bann’s knights, which I’m far too low-born to have any hope of joining, so I’d have to go some place bigger to get into a city guard. Denerim, Amaranthine, Highever… but most of them prefer sword-and-shield men from what I hear.”

“A two-handed weapon isn’t much good for subduing someone without killing them,” Alistair agreed. “I suppose being in the militia is good practise for all the patrolling and standing around on guard though.”

“No, only the regular army goes out on patrol, they just have us militia on hand for the extra bodies if an attack does come.”

“Not _just_ the army,” Alistair said, smiling slightly.

“Sorry, that’s right, you said you have a patrol tomorrow, didn’t you? What’s it like out there – we hear rumours, and I’ve seen some of the darkspawn corpses that were brought back to prove they’re actually out there, but…”

Alistair made a face. “I don’t really know, actually… this is the first patrol I’m going out on, myself. And since I’ve been stuck up here in the upper camp while most of the wardens are posted down below, I haven’t really heard much from the others about what they’ve seen out there. Just enough to know that the darkspawn _are_ out there. Duncan says we’ve likely only seen the outer fringes of their force yet; he believes that somewhere out there is a whole army of them on the move, though so far no one has been able to get close enough to get a look and come back with word; not and survive the experience anyway, there’s been a few solo scouts gone missing, and at least one patrol is now well overdue on returning. But I shouldn’t say anything more about that,” he suddenly said, looking abashed. “Duncan would have my hide for spreading rumours.”

Carver shot him a grin. “Rumours? What rumours? I haven’t heard any rumours!”

Alistair snorted. “You need to work on your innocent look,” he told him.

Carver’s grin widened. “Bethany has always been the one of us who was any good at that. Mind you she’s also the one of us most likely to get us into trouble in the first place, so it’s a good thing she’s almost as adept at getting us out of it.”

“What’s it like, having a twin?” Alistair asked curiously.

Carver shrugged; it was a question he’d been asked a number of times in the past. “Nice. Not in the sort of ‘us against the entire rest of the world’ way that people seem to think it must be most of the time, but… well, she’s always there, isn’t she? Except when she’s not,” he added a touch glumly.

Alistair smiled at him. “I wish I knew my sister. I’ve got a half-sister on my mother’s side, to go with the half-brother on my father’s… but I never knew her either. My mother died birthing me, and she left…” He trailed off, then sighed. “I wish I knew her. Having a sibling, someone I was actually _close_ with… that’d be nice.”

“Mostly it is,” Carver agreed. “Though along with things like meaning there’s almost always someone around to play with, it also means things like there’s almost always someone around. Very little privacy, if you know what I mean. Especially when you live in a small enough cottage that you have to share the loft with your sisters,” Carver added, grimacing.

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” Alistair said, and flushed pink, then suddenly grinned. “Having spent most of my own life in dormitories, I get what you mean.”

Carver grinned back at him. “I’m sure them being _chantry_ dormitories made it even worse.”

Alistair laughed. “Probably,” he agreed. “Not that _that_ prevented everyone, but…” He broke off, flush darkening to a bright red.

Carver laughed. “Yeah. Wouldn’t have been so bad if I was sharing a room with two brothers, I suppose, we could have just… ignored each other. But _sisters_. It was kind of a relief to sign up; I may currently live out of a mildewed canvas tent only just barely big enough for me to fit in feet-first, but it’s all mine and mine alone.”

Alistair snickered. “Been making up for lost time?”

“May have been. Might have been,” he answered as blandly as he could, then grinned.

They both laughed. Alistair, having finally finished eating, took a moment to clean his bowl with a splash of water from his waterskin and a bit of rag, propping it up against a stone near the fire to dry.

“So how does one become a Grey Warden, anyway? Generally,” Carver asked.

Alistair shrugged. “Numerous ways. Myself and one of the current recruits both competed in tourneys for the honour of joining up. One recruit tried to pick-pocket Duncan and ended up being conscripted on the spot, more fool he. The other… well, he was about to be sent off to Aeonar for assisting a blood mage; Duncan’s always on the lookout for more mages for the wardens and decided to give him a chance with us instead.”

“A blood mage?” Carver asked, stilling.

“He’s not one himself. But a friend of his… he turned out to be one, is what I heard. Nasty business.”

“I can imagine,” Carver said darkly, thinking of some of the things his father had said on the subject over the years. “Brrr!”

“Yeah.”

“So that’s how most wardens become wardens? Either through competing to get in or through being caught doing the wrong thing at the wrong time?”

“Pretty much, yes. Grey Wardens don’t believe in letting people with potentially useful skills go to waste, and there’s… less fuss, I suppose, when most of our recruits are culled from the dregs; from condemned criminals and the like. A Grey Warden’s life isn’t usually a very long one,” he said, sounding a touch melancholy. “Still… it’s something that needs doing. There are worse ways to die than making things safe for everyone else.”

“I can agree with that,” Carver said, nodding thoughtfully. “I’d do anything to keep my family safe, even if it killed me. Dying for my neighbours is a little more… abstract, I suppose. But I knew when I joined up that there was always a chance I wouldn’t be going home.”

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that; frankly I’d almost be happy to have Teryn Loghain turn out to be right and Duncan wrong, and this all be a false alarm over a larger than normal group of darkspawn having wandered out of the Deep Roads somewhere south of here.”

Carver grinned. “You sound like one of the old farmer’s at the town watering hole – ‘just you watch, m’boy, it’ll all be a false alarm an’ you’ll be back home hoeing the fields agin a week later!’ – not that I ever did much hoeing, us having an orchard, bee skeps, and some small livestock mostly, and only enough field space for our home garden.”

They talked a little while longer, then Alistair rose, stooping to pick up his now-dry bowl and move it away from the heat of the fire. “I’d better turn in. We’ll see you’re awake in time to be out the gates the moment they open. Do you need a blanket or anything?”

“No, this is fine, thanks,” Carver said, moving off the log he’d been sitting on to stretch out sideways on the ground near the fire. “I’ve slept worse, when travelling.”

“All right… see you tomorrow then. Good-night, Carver.”

“Night, Alistair,” Carver said. He closed his eyes, listening to Alistair moving away and getting into his own bedroll, the faint sounds of the encampment around them, soon dropping off to sleep.

* * *

A nudge in the ribs with a booted foot awoke him in the pre-dawn darkness the next morning.

“Who’s this then?” someone asked suspiciously from the other side of the fire. “We got another recruit?”

“No, he’s not one of ours,” Alistair said, glancing that way, then smiled at Carver and offered him a hand up. “Gates should be opening shortly. I’d offer you breakfast but,” he turned his head to the shapes clustered on the other side of the fire and raised his voice a little. “ _Someone_ forgot it was their turn to start the porridge and overslept, and _someone else_ finished off the remainder of the stew in the middle of the night.”

There was a discontented mumble from the other side of the fire, including what Carver was pretty sure were directions for Alistair to do something anatomically impossible.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Daveth,” Alistair said sternly without turning his head to look at whomever had spoken. “Get the pot cleaned out and put away, we’re supposed to be heading out into the wilds within the hour; no time for a hot meal now, we’ll have to make do with travel rations.” That led to a chorus of groans, and some not-very-subdued muttering by someone with a deeper voice than the one Alistair had called Daveth.

Carver smiled at Alistair, able to see the mostly-amused expression on his face at the grumbling of his recruits. “Thanks for the place to sleep,” he said. “Good luck on your patrol.”

“Thanks. With this bunch, I’m sure I’ll need it,” Alistair responded, grinning briefly.

Carver dipped him a shallow bow of a salute, then hurried off to the gate down to the lower camp. The guards eyed him suspiciously, until he showed his tag again, demonstrating that he was supposed to be down there, not up here. That gained him a little good-natured ribbing before they finally opened the gates for the day, and he was able to hurry off down the walkways and staircases. He got back to his own tent with just enough time to chew on some jerky while he hurriedly changed into his arming jacket, fastened on his boiled leather armour and dragged his sword out of his tent, attaching it to its hanger on his back before hurrying to his post, near the gate leading from the lower camp to the surrounding woods.

He’d been there about a half hour when he heard a now-familiar voice and looked around to see Alistair leading his trio of recruits toward the gate, all of them carrying heavy packs in addition to wearing their arms and armour. There was a middle-aged heavy-set balding man with the look of a knight about him – he was wearing half-decent plate armour, anyway – a rangy-looking dark-haired man with a longbow, and a brown-haired elven mage who seemed in imminent danger of tripping over his own robes, the pack on his back appearing huge in comparison to his slight stature, though it wasn’t any bigger than what the three humans carried.

Alistair spotted him, and gave him a distracted nod when Carver raised one hand in greeting, before turning to bark something at the archer.

“Hmmph. _Wardens_ ,” said one of the other men on guard duty, and spat.

“We can’t all be such fine fighting men as you, Kirin,” Captain Pevens said dryly, making them both jump, he having moved up nearby without either of them noticing. “Your eyes are supposed to be on the forest, not on what’s going on inside the walls,” he reminded both of them, giving them each a piercing head-to-toe look. “Carver… keep a closer eye on the hour next time I send you off on an errand, hmmm?”

“Yes Ser,” Carver answered, straightening up as he flushed in embarrassment. Though he was relieved that Pevens had at least indicated that there likely would be a next time; he’d messed up, but not unforgivably. Keeping his eyes carefully fixed on the distant tree-line, he wondered only briefly about how Alistair and his recruits would fare on their trip into the wilds, before turning his mind to more pressing matters, such as the number of hours he’d be on duty before he could get away to have a proper meal, and maybe some quality time with a bit of soap and water.

* * *

Carver retched, and retched again, prevented from vomiting only by the fact that his stomach was already well-emptied. The smell of blood and viscera from the dead and dying was strong enough that even the heavy rainfall couldn’t mask it; the flashes of lightning and occasional still-burning torches and bonfires revealed horrors everywhere, men and women broken open like a dropped squash. The darkspawn were little better; worse, if anything, their flesh seeming discoloured, their blood as black as a bruise and smelling half-rotted already.

It had all gone so wrong so quickly; the darkspawn approaching at dusk, instead of some more sensible hour, the storm rolling in at the same time and quickly rendering many of their weapons useless – bows, crossbows, and most siege engines worked poorly if at all once their string was well-wetted. While catapults could only fire once, twice, maybe thrice before the wet stilled them, the arms of the huge ogres stalking across the battlefield were not similarly affected; they flung boulders, large branches, small trees, whatever came to hand at the defending forces, unaffected by the wet.

The torrential downpour and heavy wind also lessened the range of vision so that one only knew what was happening close-by, most of the battle-field lost to view, while the water turned what had been dry well-packed soil underfoot into a sticky morass, clinging to feet and quickly being churned into ankle-deep muck in the more heavily-trafficked areas, soft and treacherous. It slowed movement, and tripped up the incautious, at a time when a failure of footing could mean having a darkspawn’s weapon in your gut.

Worst of all, perhaps, some panicking fool had ordered a charge, moving men out of the narrow, easily-defended mouth of the pass and out into the face of the darkspawn’s advance, where they’d quickly been cut off and decimated, few if any making it back to the comparative safety of the lines. That had weakened the centre of their defence, a weakness the darkspawn hadn’t hesitated to take advantage of, pouring forward to pound against the line while it bent, deformed, and finally broke, the main body of the darkspawn pouring into the narrow defile, rapidly turning it into a killing ground.

The things he’d seen, since… _the things he’d seen…!_ He retched again, and gulped for air, doing the only thing left to him and the remaining survivors; fleeing north through the pass, the darkspawn on their heels, hoping that he would be fast enough to get out and get away before falling to the monsters chasing after them, knowing that he was only still alive because others hadn’t been _fast enough…_

He was only dimly aware of the towering cliffs lowering down and spreading off to other side, the long up-hill run through the pass finally levelling off in a field speckled with ruins, the remains of a trading centre that had once flourished here ages ago, protected by Ostagar to its south. He fled through the grassy lanes that had once been streets, hearing still – more distantly now – the occasional screams and cries of men dying, the howls and roars of darkspawn on the hunt. Catching glimpses of movement here and there, others fleeing north just as madly as he was. It was only once he reached the northern edge of the ruins, where the remains of one of the old roads cut through the eaves of the forest to join with the old Imperial Highway heading north, that he finally slowed and stopped for a moment, finding himself bending over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath among a spread-out group of other survivors doing much the same thing.

The only sounds now were the rain, occasional sobs and swears, the pained whimpers of the wounded.

A sudden barking was the only warning he had before a compact, solidly-muscled form knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling in the mud, only barely preventing himself from ending up on his face in it. He laughed, startled, delighted, as he squirmed enough to roll over and throw his arms around Barkus, certain that if the mabari was here and in good spirits that Marian could not be far behind. He sobbed in relief as she staggered out of the ruins nearby, looking just as tired and shocky as he felt.

“Carver!” she cried, her whole face lighting up as she spotted him and the dog. She stumbled forward as he pushed Barkus aside and shakily rose to his feet again, the two throwing their arms around each other in a fierce hug. “I though you must be dead,” she said, shivering, her teeth chattering. “I saw… I saw… oh, by the Maker, Carver, _you’re alive_.”

He blinked, clearing his eyes of more than just rain. “I feared the same of you,” he said tiredly, then looked around. “We should keep moving,” he said.

“Yes,” Marian agreed, immediately. “The darkspawn can’t be far behind. We… we need to get home, get mother and Bethany on the move.”

“What?” he asked, as they started limping toward the nearby ramp up to the Imperial Highway. “Why?” He felt thick-headed, and knew he wasn’t tracking things very well at the moment. The shock, he thought, and wished desperately to be home by the fire, wrapped in thick blankets and with a warming mug of well-honeyed tea, mother and Bethy fussing over him…

“The darkspawn, Carver,” Marian said, her voice hardening. “They won’t stop here, and the army is gone. If they follow the easy route north, the highway… that’ll lead them right to Lothering.”

He froze for a moment. “Fuck,” he said softly.

“Exactly. Come on… it’s a good few days travel even at a good pace, and the sooner we get there, the sooner we can get mother and Bethany to safety.”

Leaning on each other for support, Barkus trotting ahead-behind around them on guard, they hurried north at the best pace they could manage. Carver felt guilty for hoping that the darkspawn would remain behind for a while before starting north, doing… whatever it was that darkspawn did with the bodies of the dead or those unfortunate enough to be captured alive. He’d heard rumours, before the battle, and could only be glad not to know the truth of them one way or the other.

* * *

They were not the first to reach Lothering with the news, though they weren’t more than half a day behind the foremost survivors of the slaughter. Many of the townspeople were still gathered near the chantry, talking in panic, when they trailed in.

“Mother and Bethany are probably here somewhere,” Marian said as they looked over the gathered crowd. “We should look for them here before heading home. Barkus, find them.”

The mabari gave a single subdued bark – Barkus was as tired and footsore as they were – then pushed his way into the crowd, his nose most likely to find the others first. Carver looked tiredly around, hoping to spot their heads, though as neither mother nor Bethy were the tallest of people that was likely a futile endeavour.

Marian muttered a low curse. He turned and frowned at her, then followed her glare to someone standing on an upturned crate off to one side. Drunk, by the look of him, and ranting about _deserters_ and the danger they presented to the good folk of Lothering. Carver’s own jaw set when he realized it was people like Marian and himself the man was talking about; accusing the survivors from Ostagar of being base cowards, because they’d fled rather than standing and dying in the face of a hopeless battle. Accusing them of _showing the darkspawn where to go_ …

Before either he or Marian could react to that, someone else did, rising up in front of the drunk and hitting him in the face so hard he went stumbling backwards off of his crate, the centre of his face a bloom of red from his shattered nose.

It became a minor riot after that, until the templars from the nearby chantry waded into the screaming crowd to try and enforce peace, the villagers and the groups of exhausted soldiers at odds with each other. Carver was starting to wonder if he and Marian were going to get sucked into the fight as well – fighting their own neighbours – when Barkus suddenly galloped back up to them, looking pleased with him, mother following behind him and looking frightened at the melee going on around her.

“Mother!” Marian cried, and the two hugged tightly for a moment, before mother drew apart enough to free an arm and draw Carver in as well, to his pleased embarrassment.

“Where’s Bethany?” he asked worriedly.

“I left her at home,” mother said. “Come, let’s get out of here… let’s go home.” Even as frightened as she clearly was, she grabbed each of them by the arm and all but dragged them away from the seething fight, as much their mother now that they towered over her by a head as when they were much smaller.

* * *

“You both need _rest_ ,” mother said firmly. “And I need time to pack up a few things to take with us. Bethany, heat water for baths for the two of them. You reek,” she informed them sternly, then turned to look over the contents of the kitchen. “I suppose we might as well roast that duck for dinner, though I’d meant it to hang another day… I’d better get some biscuits baking, what we don’t eat we can take with us…”

Marian rolled her eyes, but set to helping Bethany fill the copper with water and getting a fire laid under it, while Carver went out to the shed to fetch in the heavy wooden tub that served double duty for both washing laundry and washing themselves.

“How long do you think we have?” he asked Marian quietly as he set it down.

“At least a day or two, maybe three,” she said only a little worriedly. “You know mother though, once her head is set on something there’s little changing her mind. And Maker knows we could both use a bath, a change of clothes, a good feed and a rest before we move on again. If we leave tomorrow morning it should be in plenty of time to get away safely.”

Carver nodded, and grabbed one of the empty buckets to go out to the well and fetch more water. As filthy as the two of them were, he thinks they’re likely to need separate baths, rather than one of them bathing in the water leftover from the other as they’d normally do.

Mother soon came out and sent him off to tend to the animals – as if there was any real point to that any more, when they’ll be having to leave the animals behind when they go – though as he’s the only man left in the household, he knew it was mostly to get him out from underfoot while Marian bathed and changed, it having been quite a few years now since he was still young enough and innocent enough to be allowed to remain around while his sisters washed. He dawdled over feeding the animals, then took a walk through the orchard, feeling slightly stunned to think this might be the last time he ever did so.

By the time he returned to the house, Marian was sitting by the fire, dressed in a sleeping gown and towelling her hair dry. He carried out most of the dirt-clouded water a bucket-full at a time, until enough was gone that he could drag the tub outside and dump it out, rinsing it with a bucket of cold well water before taking it back indoors to refill for his own bath. Bethany and Marian had disappeared upstairs to the loft by then, the quite murmur of their voices just barely audible.

“Don’t take too long, dear,” mother said as she hung up her apron and headed in the direction of her own room, tucked in under the loft. “I need to take those biscuits out in a bit.”

“Yes, mother,” he said, and waited politely until she was out of sight before stripping out of the soiled remains of his arming jacket and leggings, the leather armour having been abandoned days ago to speed their journey north. He dropped his filthy clothing on the ground outside the back door, seeing no point in attempting to clean it, and poured a couple of buckets of well water over himself to rinse off the worst of the grime before ducking back indoors and sitting down in the tub. The water was only a little better than lukewarm, really, but compared to the spring-fed well water it felt almost blissfully hot. He scrubbed quickly with a bar of the hard soap his mother made every year, following what she said was an old family recipe. It was gentler on the skin and sweeter-swelling than the lye soap most people he knew settled for, and he made a mental note to make sure and put at least one bar of it away in his pack, thinking it was the little luxuries like this that they’d likely miss most until they found a safe place to settle again.

Rising to his feet, he poured another bucket of water – this at least verging on hot, like the bath water – over himself to rinse off, then towelled himself dry with an old sheet someone had thoughtfully left out for him, before pulling on the waiting drawstring pants. “All done,” he bellowed afterwards, then slicked back his wet hair and started on emptying the tub again.

“Let me do that,” Bethany said tartly as she climbed down the ladder from the loft. “You’re going to get your feet all muddy if you go outdoors again.”

“And you won’t?” he asked, amused.

“ _I_ am wearing clogs, and shall hike up my skirts,” she said, suiting actions to words and doing so before snatching the bucket out of his hand and carrying it off.

By the time the tub had been emptied and left leaning out of the way against the wall, the biscuits were out of the oven, and the whole house smelling deliciously of the cooking duck. They snacked on warm biscuits spread with honey from their own bees, he and Marian both tired enough to be almost nodding off where they sat, only kept awake by mother’s voice as she ordered Bethany around. The two of them hauled some old canvas packs out of a trunk and examined them to be sure they were sound, Bethany sitting down to patch some moth holes chewed in one while mother repaired a strap on another that was coming loose.

Barkus came back in from whatever he’d been up to outside, and demanded his share of the biscuits before curling up near the fire to rest.

“I’m tired enough that I wish I was still young enough to join him on the floor,” Carver said blearily, remembering napping on the floor with his head resting on Barkus’ flank when he was younger.

Marian smiled crookedly. “I was just thinking the same thing,” she admitted tiredly.

Somehow they stayed awake until after the meal, the roast duck served along with a mix of root vegetables and some of the last of the fresh things available from their garden.

“I could just swear,” mother suddenly said partway through the meal. “All that work on drying or canning things for the winter… just last week I remember looking at the shelves of preserves down in the root cellar and thinking how well-prepared we were, and now we’re just going to have to walk away from it all. What will we live on, wherever we end up at?”

She started to cry. Bethany moved closer and pulled mother’s head against her shoulder.

“We’ll manage, mother, you know we will,” Marian said reassuringly, rising to her feet and going around the table to sit down on the other side of mother, putting her arms around her. “We always do.”

Carver rose as well, uncomfortable, and at a gesture from Bethany started clearing the table, scraping the plates into the bucket to slop their one pig with. They’d have been slaughtering it for the winter soon, he found himself thinking, or at least mother and Bethany would have had to, or had a neighbour do it for them in exchange for part of the meat, and now the pig would be just another thing left behind.

“Leave those,” mother said tiredly when he started to stack the dishes in the sink. “I’ll wash them later. You and Marian look about ready to fall over sideways; get yourselves up to bed. Bethany and I will take care of things down here, and start on packing what we’ll need for travel.”

“All right, mother,” Marian agreed, and kissed Leandra’s temple before rising to her feet. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night, mother,” Carver said, stopping by the table to lean down and hug mother as well, brushing a kiss over her cheek before heading upstairs, Marian following close behind.

He turned back the sheets on his own bed, when Marian spoke up. “Leave that alone and come sleep over here,” she told him, patting the ticking beside herself. “I think Bethany and I would rather have you share with us tonight, like we did when we were kids. Unless she decides to spend the night with mother instead.”

“She might,” he agreed, and abandoned his own bed to go and crawl in beside Marian, feeling self-conscious about it; he’d had his own bed for years now, and apart from just after father had died had mostly stuck to it. It didn’t feel proper to share with his sisters any more. Though maybe Marian was right… it would be comforting to be with them tonight.

* * *

They didn’t leave first thing in the morning.

“The town is filling up with refugees; food will be running short,” mother explained firmly over breakfast the next morning. “We might not be able to take the contents of the root cellar with us, but if we take it into town and sell what we can, we can take the money from that along so that we can buy food wherever we end up. Even if we can’t sell all of it, and only get a pittance for what we do… every little bit will help, yes?”

“Yes, mother,” Marian agreed.

“Good. Bethany and I have put aside the food we’ll want to take with us, you and Carver can load up the rest on the waggon and take it into town to sell. Bethany and I will finish packing while you do that, and we can leave once you return.”

“Yes, mother,” Carver agreed as she lifted an eyebrow at him, and stuffed the rest of his breakfast – a rewarmed biscuit stuffed full of cheese and ham – into his mouth, wiping his hands on his shift as he rose to go start hauling.

“Carver! Your clothes!” she exclaimed.

“I’ll change before we leave,” he told her, feeling surprisingly good-humoured for a moment. “These are going to be all over dust and cobwebs by the time the waggon’s loaded anyway.”

Between himself and Marian, with Bethany helping carry the lighter things, they soon had the waggon fully loaded. “I’m coming into town with you,” Marian informed him. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to go alone. Barkus will stay here to guard mother and Bethany.”

“All right,” he agreed, then frowned. “Though in terms of keeping them safe, wouldn’t it be better if Bethany went with me, and you stayed home?”

“Maybe, though I expect most of the danger to be nearer town – desperate men will do desperate things, and not all of the survivors from Ostagar will have been good people; in fact despite ourselves having among the survivors, I’d hazard a guess that most of the truly _good_ men and women died on the field, standing their ground. Anyway, I’ve always been a better haggler than Bethany. Apart from with the ones who trip over their tongues the moment they see her,” she added tartly, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, we’d best get changed and on the move, I want us back here in time to leave _today_ , not be stuck here a second night.”

“Right,” Carver agreed, and the two hurried indoors, Marian stopping to inform mother and Bethany of their plans while Carver headed upstairs and changed. He’d put on a lot of muscle while at Ostagar, he noticed, and most of his clothing was tight across the shoulders, leaving him deciding on a sleeveless shirt with a padded leather mantle over top, as the most comfortable of several possible options.

“Should I bring my sword?” he asked Marian as he tied on his boots.

“I’m bringing my daggers,” she informed him.

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” he said, and went downstairs to fetch his weapon harness and blade while she changed, putting them under the bench seat of the waggon where they’d be in reach but not obvious.

* * *

The trip in to Lothering was, thankfully, non-eventful, though as soon as the town came in view they could see it had changed considerably even in last day. Groups of tents had sprung up everywhere, as refugees and surviving soldiers streamed in from further south as news as the debacle at Ostagar spread. Several of the houses in town were boarded up, their owners having obviously fled. Small groups of people stood around everywhere, speaking in worried tones about whether to stay here or move on.

As soon as their waggon pulled to a stop, people came hurrying over to buy from them. Marian moved to stand in the bed of the waggon, hands resting near her daggers. “Slow down, one at a time,” she called to the people clustering around them. “We’ll sell you what we’ve got.”

A heavy-set man pushed through to the front of the crowd. “I’ll buy the whole lot from you, waggon and oxen and all,” he called out loudly. “Ten gold pieces!”

Marian ran an evaluative eye over him. A chantry sister struggled closer in his wake. “Don’t do it! This… this _vermin_ will turn around and sell it for five times the price to desperate people,” she called out.

The man turned and gave the woman an ugly look. “It’s my right to set my prices at whatever I want to,” he pointed out. “If these two want to turn a faster profit by selling it all to me, that’s their right.”

Marian and Carver exchanged equally disgusted looks. “It’s also our right to choose not to sell to you at all, thank you very much, but no thanks,” Marian said firmly, then smiled at the woman. “Sister Imogen. Are you well?”

The sister gave her a warm smile. “Quite well, Marian. Thank you. Your mother and sister? They are both well?”

“Mother and Bethany are both fine,” Marian assured her. “Here… for those you can help,” she said, and hefted up a large sack of dried peas, passing it down to the woman.

“May Andraste bless you and light your way, my child, in thanks for your generosity,” Sister Imogen said, smiling warmly at her, before turning and heading back to the chantry, the sack clutched in both arms.

They sold out quickly, and while they didn’t quite make the ten gold coins the man had offered, they came close, and that was without selling their waggon and oxen. “Wait here with the waggon,” Marian told him when they were done. “I’m going to stop in at the Refuge for a minute, and see if I can pick up any more recent news from the south.”

“All right,” Carver said, and smiled. “Bring me back an ale?”

Marian snorted, then smiled. “Perhaps. Don’t let anyone walk off with our waggon or oxen while my back is turned!”

“I won’t,” he agreed, and settled down on the seat to wait, watching her until she disappeared into the tavern. He sat and waited patiently, sure that Marian wouldn’t take too long, not when she wanted them to move on today.

He was watching a group of small children playing nearby, seemingly oblivious to the frightening events going on in the wider world around them, when a familiar voice startled him out of his reverie.

“Carver? It _is_ you!”

He turned, surprised, to find Alistair standing a couple of feet away, grinning widely and accompanied by a bedraggled-looking elven mage and a haughty-looking woman with dark hair, startling golden-yellow eyes, and clothing with a vaguely Chasind look to it. A mud-spattered white mabari bitch sat beside them, scratching at itself with one hind leg.

“Alistair!” Carver exclaimed, grinning, and jumped down from the waggon to exchange fore-arm clasps and shoulder-blows with the man. “Maker, man, I never thought to see you again, after…”

“After Ostagar,” Alistair said, his face darkening with strong emotion. “I didn’t expect to see you again either. I’m amazed – and gladdened – that you’ve survived. And your sister?”

“We only just made it out, the pair of us,” Carver said, making a face. “I’m glad to see you too. So some of the wardens have survived after all? I thought you all dead on the field…”

Alistair grimaced. “Just me and Alim here,” he said, gesturing at the mage, who gave Carver a shy smile and a nervous head-bob. “We were told off on a separate mission instead of being down on the field with everyone else. We almost died anyway, but… well, we didn’t. As far as I know there’s just the two of us left now,” he finished glumly.

The elf edged closer to Alistair, looking half-inclined to hide behind the much larger man, and whispered something to him. Alistair nodded, then looked thoughtfully at Carver. “This isn’t over yet; we’ve got some plans to try and counter the darkspawn – old agreements the wardens have with various potential allies and the like. We could use some good men to help us,” he said quietly, one eyebrow lifting enquiringly. “Good women too.”

Carver frowned. “I wish I could tell you yes, but… well, I told you my sister and I were from Lothering. We’ve got to get our own family clear of here, first – neither of us think the darkspawn are going to stay down south much longer.”

“Neither do we,” Alistair agreed, frowning. “We ran into a couple of small groups of them on the way north; the main group of them are likely moving slower, but it can’t be too long until they overrun here as well.”

“That’s what Marian and I figured,” Carver said. “We’ve only come into town to sell off what we can’t take with us before we go; we’ll be leaving the area as soon as we get back home. But good luck on finding the help you need – and on whatever it is you’re up to.”

“Good luck to you and your family as well,” Alistair agreed, and smiled crookedly. “If you change your mind, or just happen to end up going the same way as us… we’re likely headed west to Redcliffe next.”

“I think mother and Marian were talking about heading east, actually,” Carver said regretfully. “To Denerim; if the capital city isn’t safe, than nowhere in Ferelden is. Plus we can take ship from there if we have to.”

“All right. Well then… best of luck to you,” Alistair said, and held out one hand.

“And to you,” Carver agreed, exchanging a final arm-clasp with him and nodding respectfully to the other two before climbing back up on the waggon. He watched them walk away, and saw Marian pass them on the bridge from the inn. She had a leather jack in one hand, and handed it to him as she swung up to sit beside him. “One ale, as requested. You owe me a copper for the cost of the jack, since we won’t be back here to return it.”

“Of course,” he said, smiling crookedly at her before taking a deep drink while she picked up the reins and switch and got the oxen moving, turning the waggon around to head back home.

* * *

They saw smoke and heard screams and barking as they rounded the final turn toward home. Marian paled, and flicked the switch at the oxen, moving the normally placid beasts to a much faster pace, Carver having to grab hold of the seat to prevent himself from being flung out by the juddering from the rough road.

The house was on fire, he saw, as they burst out of the trees, the barn too, the dry wood and straw progressing from “on fire” to “towering inferno of flame and smoke” even in the short time it took them to reach the house. He leapt off before they’d even come to a full stop, running around the house in the direction of the barking. He found the three of them there, mother hiding behind Bethany who was wielding her staff, sending blasts of magic at a small group of darkspawn capering around them, Barkus dashing back and forth in front of them trying to keep the monsters away. By the look of a pair of bodies sprawled motionless on the ground, Bethany had done more than just keep the darkspawn at a distance.

He already had his sword in hand, automatically howling his unit’s battle-cry as he charged forward, on the darkspawn before they could properly register his presence, lopping the head off of a tall one – a hurlock, he vaguely remembered learning back at Ostagar – before engaging a pair of the shorter, stouter genlocks. He heard Marian’s matching shout as she plunged into the fight as well, dancing back and forth to keep him between her and the worst of the threat while taking what hits she could around him. Between the pair of them, Bethany, and Barkus, they managed to kill all of the darkspawn.

“Oh, _Maker_ , I thought we were dead for sure,” Bethany exclaimed once the fight ended. “There were so many of them… they came out of nowhere, it seemed, and had the barn on fire before we even knew they were here. We only just got out of the house in time…” She broke off, trembling and wide-eyed.

Mother hugged her, looking over her shoulder at the house. “All that work to get things properly packed away and it’s all burning up,” she exclaimed, sounding choked up. “We’ve nothing now but the clothes on our backs.”

“And the money from selling our goods in Lothering,” Marian pointed out, stepping forward to give the pair each a hug, though her attention remained on their surroundings. “Come along, where there was one group of darkspawn, there’s likely more… we need to leave, _now_.”

They hurried back around to the front of the house, only to find one of their oxen gone entirely – broken its traces and fled in fright, perhaps – and the other dead in its harness, its throat torn bloodily open and chunks hacked crudely out of it. Mother gasped and swore – rare for her – while Bethany retched and turned her back.

“This way,” Marian said grimly, and led them on. “We’d better hurry – as dry as things currently are, that fire is likely going to spread fast.”

It was not the only plume of smoke visible, Carver couldn’t help noticing grimly as they headed north and then east; there were definitely more darkspawn about.

* * *

Carver crouched on a boulder, his blade balanced across his knees, watching the forest fire creeping across the hills to the south, the orange and red light of it reflecting off the thick dark clouds overhead. He thought a glow behind a hill off to the southwest might be Lothering, burning, unless he’d gotten completely turned around as to what directions they’d moved in.

He heard someone moving up behind him, and knew without looking that it was Bethany – Marian he’d never have heard, and mother was humming to herself as she mended a tear in her dress with the needle and thread that had been in the little leather pouch on her belt that she habitually carried everywhere with her.

Bethany sank down to sit beside him, tucking up her legs and wrapping her arms around them, resting her chin on them as she looked out across the hills as well. “It doesn’t seem real,” she said softly. “It all happened so fast… one day mother and I were talking about whether you and Marian would be back in time to help with slaughtering the pig, and the next… it’s all gone, isn’t it. The farm, our animals, the orchard, the bees, the _town_ …” She stopped, voice breaking. Carver shifted and put one arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

“It’s gone,” he agreed. “But we’ve kept all the most important things… you, Marian, mother…”

“That dratted mabari…” Bethany said, smiling weakly.

“Barkus too,” Carver agreed solemnly, and turned to kiss her temple. “We’ll survive. We’re Hawkes, and that’s what Hawkes do, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Bethany agreed tiredly, then sighed and slumped against him. “Maker, my feet are killing me. I haven’t walked so far in one day in ages. If ever.”

“Mine are killing me too, and I’ve walked a lot further, and recently,” Carver pointed out. “And more walking ahead; it’s a long way to Denerim from here.”

“Please don’t remind me,” Bethany said, and made a face, then sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Tell me it’ll be all right.”

“I’m sure it will be, eventually.”

“Tell me that like you believe it.”

He chuckled, and squeezed her shoulders gently. “I _do_ mean it. Things may be ugly for a while, but as long as we all have each other… we’ll be all right.”

She sighed, and said nothing more, but simply leaned against him for comfort. He sat there, arm around her, watching the fires and thinking.

He knew his history; they might have been poor all their lives, but mother came from people, somewhere up north, and had had a real education in her youth, much of which she’d passed on to her own children. Blights ended because of Grey Wardens, he knew, mentally telling off the string of names in his head from the old stories, the legends. Every Archdemon that had ever been had been killed by a Grey Warden in the end. And while the wardens weren’t quite entirely wiped out in Ferelden… there was just the two of them left.

He hoped two would be enough.

* * *

They’d hit a swale the next day, the ground and woods wet enough and isolated enough by the surrounding steep hillsides to have not been burnt off by the spreading fires yet, despite the leaves on the aspens that filled it having turned to yellow already. Bethany was helping mother across a particularly boggy stretch of ground, while Marian scouted ahead with Barkus and Carver brought up the rear.

He stopped for a moment, looking at the smoke-streaked sky behind them. Were it not for the smoke and smell of burning, their own tiredness and lack of supplies, it might almost be possible to believe that they were just out on a walk in the autumn wood. That they weren’t trampling through the heart of a nightmare, fleeing death and horrors.

He wondered how far along toward Redcliffe the wardens were by now; somehow he doubted that they’d lingered in Lothering long enough to be caught up in the disaster there. He found himself thinking of that night by the fire, Alistair’s easy friendship, their agreement that there were things worth protecting, people worth dying for.

Ferelden might not fall into that category for him; he was only attached to it in that it was the country he’d grown up in, the place where his family lived. Mother was already making noises about leaving it behind, heading north to Kirkwall where, she said, they still had family and the potential of a new home, far from the spreading Blight.

And the Blight _would_ spread, if left unchecked, he knew. Potentially all of Ferelden might end as a wasteland, if past Blights were anything to go by. It could even spread well beyond Ferelden, making even Kirkwall a place that wasn’t far enough away, wasn’t safe enough; some Blights had lasted for decades, leaving vast areas of Thedas rendered all but lifeless, the soil sterile and unable to bear crops even ages afterwards.

He didn’t realize how long he’d been standing still, looking back the way they’d come, until Marian spoke right beside him, making him jump in surprise. “What is it? Something on our trail?” she asked anxiously.

“No, nothing like that, just…”

“Just what?”

“Just… remember that Grey Warden I told you about?” he asked, feeling a little desperate.

“The one at Ostagar? He’s probably dead, Carver, the wardens were in the vanguard…”

“No, he’s not. When we went into Lothering the day before yesterday, he was there, him and another warden, a mage. Headed to Redcliffe, he said. He… he asked me to join the pair of them. To help them.”

There was a painfully long silence before Marian spoke again, her voice hardening. “And these wardens are more important than your own family?”

“What? No! Just… dammit, Marian, I just find myself wondering if I’m doing the right thing, okay? Is it better to run away and hope the Blight doesn’t follow us to wherever we go, or is it better to stand and fight? I… I don’t want to leave you and mother and Bethy on your own, but you don’t really _need_ me, do you? It’d be one less fare to have to pay, too.”

“Carver? Marian? What’s keeping you?” he heard mother call out from up ahead.

“Come on,” Marian said, grabbing his arm and pulling. “I’m not leaving you behind. The pair of them would have my guts for garters if I did.”

Carver sighed, but allowed himself to be pulled forward, across the boggy bit to where mother and Bethany waited, mother sitting back against a boulder while Bethany poked around in the undergrowth, looking for anything that was safely edible. She looked up as they approached, then suddenly froze, before straightening abruptly.

“You’re staying,” she said, face paling. She was his twin; she’d always been better at reading him than anyone else.

“What!” mother exclaimed, levering herself to her feet. “No he’s not!”

Carver drew a deep breath, feeling the… the _rightness_ of the choice settling over him. “Yes, I am,” he told them.

Bethany stepped over and threw her arms around him, hugging him tight. “Dolt,” she said, voice hoarse.

“I know, I’m an idiot, but…”

“Enough of this, you’re coming with us, Carver,” mother snapped angrily.

“The three of you should be able to make it to Denerim from without too much problem,” Carver said firmly, looking back and forth between his sisters before turning his attention to his mother. “Go on to Kirkwall; start a new life for yourselves there. I’m… there’s other people _here_ that need help. This Blight isn’t over yet; it’s barely begun. I intend to stay here and be what help I can.”

“Oh, you _fool…_ you’re my son! I don’t want to lose you, let someone else worry about it…”

“No, mother… I’m staying. My decision has been made. Anyway… we’re all someone’s son or daughter, aren’t we? If all of us leave it for someone else to worry about, who is going to do anything about it, before it’s too late? I’d rather stay here and face it, on soil I know, then head north and live in fear of the Blight following behind to steal away our new life all over again.”

Mother started to say something else, but Marian stepped forward and set her hand on her arm, stopping her. “I don’t like it either, mother, but it _is_ his choice to make,” she said quietly, and turned an unhappy look his way. “And it looks like he’s made it.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just… this is the right thing to do,” he told them, then flung his arms around their mother in a firm hug, buying his head against her shoulder for a moment as he hadn’t done since he was a much smaller boy. “I’m sure of it,” he said, then raised his head and stepped back, away from them. “Go on, get moving, you have a long way to walk before you’ll be truly safe again; I’ll wipe out what of your back trail I can before I head north again, so if anything unfriendly comes this way it’ll be more likely to follow after me…”

That made mother shriek unhappily, and Marian and Bethany both look stricken. “I can travel far faster on my own then the three of you can together,” he said firmly. “Better anything that comes along follows me than you. Now please, just… just _go_.”

It took several rounds of hugs and tear-laden outbursts from mother before Bethany and Marian finally got her moving away again, bitterly railing against leaving him behind. Barkus at least seemed to understand, merely standing up on his hind legs to rest his massive forepaws on Carver’s shoulders, nosing at his chin for a moment before pelting after the trio. Carver watched them out of sight, then set to tidying up signs of their passage as best he could, already estimating in his head just how far north he should go before cutting back west, in order to bypass Lothering as he headed to Redcliffe.

The three of them would be fine, he was sure – Marian would keep Bethany and Mother safe, and it would all work out, somehow.

It had to.


	2. Chapter 2

There was smoke rising into the sky over the village of Redcliffe, and the stench of well-rotted bodies fouled the air. Carver froze for a while on the ridge, gazing down at the houses far below, and was only somewhat relieved when he saw figures moving around in the square before the chantry. Too far away to tell for sure from here if it was humans or darkspawn, but they moved like humans and he decided to risk approaching closer.

The narrow slot down to the windmill perched on a ledge overlooking the town had clearly been a battlefield some time within the last day, the slope still peppered with spent arrows and broken weapons. There was a group of men gathered near the windmill, he saw, men in armour, clearly _not_ darkspawn, and nearby the smouldering remains of a pyre.

He hailed the men as he descended the slope towards them. The whole group turned and looked him over, before one of them moved forward a few steps.

“Welcome to Redcliffe, traveller,” the man said guardedly. “I am Ser Perth, a knight of Redcliffe. What might be your business here?”

“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Carver said. “He told me he was headed this way. A man in splint armour, tall, with short brownish-blond hair, named Alistair.”

That drew the attention of all of the men again. “You claim to be a friend of Alistair’s?” one asked.

Ser Perth gestured them back to silence, and looked Carver over suspiciously from head to toe. “You know Alistair?”

“Yes. We met, at Ostagar, and again in Lothering. He’s been here then?”

“Describe his companions to me.”

“Oh… well, he had two when I last saw him. An elf, about this tall,” Carver held out his hand to demonstrate, “wearing robes and having long brown hair in a rough braid, and a woman, with black hair pulled back in a bun. I think the elf’s name started with an A… Adam or Aren or something like that. I never caught the woman’s name. Oh, and they had a mabari too, a white one.”

“Well, you at least do know what they look like,” Ser Perth said, relaxing somewhat. He gestured at the castle perched on its island out in the lake. “You’ll have to wait to see them; they’ve gone into the castle to try and free it from the curse.”

“A curse?” Carver asked, eyebrows rising, and found himself being treated to a long story of the horrendous occurrences in the village of late, while he waited for Alistair and his companions – the group of which seemed to have grown since they’d crossed paths in Lothering – to emerge from the castle.

It was mid-afternoon before one of the knights on look-out duty cried out that there were people crossing the bridge from the castle’s direction. They all hurried up the slope to the bridge entrance to greet them, Ser Perth clearly relieved to recognize several of the group. “Bann Teagan!” he called out. “Is all well at the castle?”

A tired-looking man with short-cropped red hair smiled wearily at the knight. “As well as it can be for now, thanks to the wardens and their friends. We’ll have need of you and the remaining knights to secure the castle and restore order.”

The elf was walking next to the Bann, and behind him Carver was relieved to spot Alistair himself, looking tired and rather miserable but clearly having come through his recent adventures without major injury. Alistair looked up and spotted him as well, and smiled widely, leaning down to say something quietly to Alim before escaping the group to come over and greet Carver.

“Changed your mind about leaving?” Alistair asked, teeth showing in a wide grin as he grasped Carver’s forearm and buffeted his shoulder.

“Yeah, once we got the family well clear of Lothering I found myself thinking that I might be of more use staying here than leaving. Mother was pushing for us to leave Ferelden entirely and… well, I was born here, I grew up here. It didn’t feel right, just walking away like that without trying to do more to stop the Blight. So, if you can still use another man… I’m up for it.”

Alistair’s grin widened. “We’ll be pleased to have you. Especially me; Alim has been recruiting all sorts of unsavoury characters since we reached Lothering. One is a chantry sister which isn’t too bad, apart from her seeming a little odd in the head at times, but the rest… well, you’ll see. Come on and meet everyone,” Alistair said, and led him off.

* * *

A swamp witch who’d be just as happy to have remained home, a chantry sister with visions, a Qunari murderer, and an assassin who’d try to kill them all – Alistair had certainly been right about Alim and unsavoury characters. Alim himself seemed nice, if painfully shy, and Alistair and the mabari were both friendly and welcoming.

“I wanted to name her Barkspawn, and Morrigan suggested Larkspur, so Alim somehow decided that Barkspur was a good compromise,” Alistair explained as he, Carver and the mabari led the way up a steep slope, the remainder of the party spread out behind them, with Sten bringing up the rear.

“Well, I think it’s a perfectly good name, but then my sister did name her mabari Barkus, so I may be biased,” Carver said, and smiled down at the mabari. “The main question is whether or not Barkspur likes the name.”

She barked happily and wagged her tail enthusiastically. Carver grinned. “And clearly she approves of it.”

They paused on the crest of the hill, waiting for the remainder of the party to catch up. Alim arrived first, panting and red-faced from exertion and sun, his hair escaping from its braid in a tangled cloud. “How much further?” he asked.

“We should reach the inn by this evening,” Alistair told him. “Then it’s just a short boat ride to the tower.”

“Good,” Alim said. “I hope they can help Connor; I’d rather not have to kill him.”

“You’re sure Jowan can be trusted?” Alistair asked, frowning.

Alim’s chin set firmly. “He’s my best friend. I’d trust him with my life, even after… well. After.”

There was a story there that they haven’t told him, Carver thought, and then remembered what Alistair had told him that night in Ostagar. “This Jowan, is this the friend that’s a blood mage?” he asked.

“How’d you know that?” Alistair asked, startled. Alim had gone wide-eyed and pale, stilled and stiffened in fright.

“You told me about him that night at Ostagar, though not by name, remember – that one of your recruits was a mage who’d got in trouble for helping a friend who turned out to be a blood mage? Alim is obviously the mage in question, so when the two of you start beating the bush around the subject of a friend of his you clearly encountered at Redcliffe…” Carver broke off, shrugged, and lifted one eyebrow questioningly at the pair of them.

“He’s smarter than he looks,” Morrigan said approvingly as she strolled up to join them. “Unlike our dear Alistair.”

Alistair flushed, while Alim relaxed, smiling briefly at Morrigan before turning his attention back to Carver. “That was Jowan,” he agreed.

“Why are we stopping? Is there a problem?” Leliana asked as she and Zevran arrived.

“No problem, we’re just waiting for all of you to catch up,” Alistair said.

“We should not travel so spread out,” Sten said as he too reached the group. “It is inefficient, and dangerous if we should chance to be attacked.”

That led to the usual brief argument – Carver sometimes thought the group would argue over whether or not it was raining even as their clothes got soaked by it – and then they continued on, in a much more compact group this time.

* * *

Carver slipped out of the inn in search of solitude, and somehow wasn’t surprised to see that he was not the only one that had done so; Alim was sitting on one of the rock shelves that edged the lake, his knees drawn up and chin resting on them, watching the tower. Carver only hesitated briefly before walking over to sit down beside him.

“It looks so peaceful and undisturbed from here,” Alim said quietly after a while. “It’s so hard to believe…” He broke off, and sniffled. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Carver said. “It’s like me and Lothering, isn’t it… knowing it’s gone, that almost everyone you grew up knowing is dead, and most of them likely died horribly.”

“Yes,” Alim agreed, and lowered his head, resting forehead instead of chin on his knees, curling up tight and shaking. Carver silently put one arm around him, drawing him close while he cried. It was some time before Alim finally stopped and uncurled a little, leaning still against Carver’s side.

“Why aren’t you scared of me?” Alim suddenly asked, raising his head to look at Carver’s face, a faintly puzzled expression on his face. “I’m a mage…”

“So was my father,” Carver told him, and looked across the lake, nodding his head toward the tower. “He escaped from one of those once, and eloped with my mother. They came here to Ferelden to raise a family; Mother was already pregnant with my older sister Marian when they arrived here. They had me and my twin sister several years later,” he said, and drew a deep breath, thinking quickly before deciding it was safe to share Bethany’s secret, now that she was doubtless well out of reach of any Ferelden templars. “She’s a mage too. My twin.”

“Oh,” Alim said, and smiled, then relaxed even further. “So you’re not scared of mages.”

“No. Not the same way most other people are, anyway; no more scared than I am of a sharp sword. I don’t think the chantry locking mages away in towers really helps anything. And Maker but I’m happy that Bethany was never found out and taken,” he added fiercely. “She might have been there, otherwise,” he nodded in the direction of the tower.

“Can you tell me about her?” Alim asked, sounding a little wistful. “Tell me about how a free mage grows up.”

So he did, talking until his voice was hoarse and Alim was tired enough to return to the inn and sleep. It was only when they stood up to go back that he blushingly realized he’d kept his arm around Alim long past the point of any comfort being needed.

* * *

The long wait for Alim and the others to come back out of the Deep Roads was the most painful thing Carver had done in a long time. He missed Alistair and Alim more than he’d thought he would, and the fear that they might not return at all, if things went wrong… that was the worst of all. He wished they all could have gone, but it had come down to how many people they could gather sufficient supplies for, and a small group moving faster and quieter than a large one. In the end Alim had taken along Alistair, Oghren, and Morrigan, who’d been receiving training in healing magics from Wynne since they’d first added the elderly mage to their group back at the Kinloch Hold. And Barkspur, of course, the mabari being inseparable from the warden mage.

That seemed so long ago now, with all the travelling they’d done since; first back to Redcliffe to free Connor Guerrin from his demon, then sneaking into Denerim in search of more information about Brother Genitivi and the supposed location of Andraste’s temple, which had led them in a circle right back to the docks of the Hold again. Now, in making their way around the lake to the western coast of it, they’d stopped in for what was supposed to be only a brief visit to Orzammar, only to be trapped here by events and local politics for weeks on end.

Zevran and Leliana slid onto the bench seat to either side of him, having tracked him down once again. Not that doing so was very hard, there only being the one decent bar in the city. Zevran had a tankard of dwarf beer, while Leliana had somehow procured a glass of wine for herself.

“You are worrying about the little mage again,” Zevran said.

Carver flushed. “And Alistair. I’m friends with both of them, after all.”

“But you don’t worry about Alistair nearly as much,” Leliana observed.

“Alistair can look after himself, Alim…” he broke off. Alim could look after himself pretty well too, actually; for all his shyness and reticence most of the time, he was like an unstoppable force of nature in battle. He’d be frightening, if Carver wasn’t already used to fighting with a mage by his side from childhood practice with his father and sister. Instead he was just… well. _Impressive._

“You cannot fool a bard,” Leliana teased him, looking pleased with herself. “You _like_ him. And he likes you too; he even lets you braid his hair for him.”

Carver’s blush darkened. “Only because he’s complete crap at it. I used to braid my sisters’ hair, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Zevran laughed. “Leliana is merely jealous because our sweet Alim would not let her do the same.”

“He has such _nice_ hair,” Leliana said, sighing longingly. “So long, and it looks so soft…”

“Hey!” Carver exclaimed.

“Now, now, enough teasing poor Carver,” Wynne said, sinking into a chair across from them. He was mildly surprised to see that she had a tankard of ale as well, rather than imported wine like Leliana did. “I hope they get back soon. I don’t like the rumours I’m hearing floating around about events in the Diamond Quarter. If they take more than a few days longer, they may well return too late to have any influence with the next king.”

“Really? What have you heard?” Leliana asked interestedly, and the other three were soon involved in an intense discussion of local politics, leaving Carver to nurse his drink and think about how much he missed Alim. And Alistair. But maybe mostly Alim.

* * *

All right, he was in love. Or at least had a huge crush, one that made the juvenile attachment he’d felt to Peaches seem like nothing more than mild interest. He’d first admitted it to himself when Alim and the others finally emerged from the Deep Roads, just in time to play a pivotal role in selecting the next King of Orzammar, Bhelen Aeducan. A slimy little bastard, but at least he was willing to work with surfacers; Lord Harrowmont, for all his talk of future cooperation, had always clearly looked down on Alim and his allies.

The relief he’d felt, on seeing Alim’s face again – gaunt, even paler than usual, dark-eyed with exhausted as he was – had staggered him. It had taken considerable self-control not to just grab the mage in a hug and refuse to let go, to drag him off and make him rest and feed him up…

Not that Alim would have agreed to any of that; neither Alim nor Alistair had been willing to spend even a minute longer in Orzammar than they’d needed to, the entire party departing as quickly as they could despite it already being late in the day, making their way as far down the pass as was reasonably possible before finally reluctantly calling a halt for the night and making camp.

“Don’t bother putting up my tent,” Alim said as he began pulling supplies out of backpacks for a meal. “I want to be able to see the stars tonight.”

“It’s clouding over,” Wynne pointed out.

“Clouds will do. Sky of any sort.”

“Don’t bother with my tent either; I’m with Alim on wanting sky overhead,” Alistair said as he skirted the edges of the clearing, gathering fallen branches and deadwood for firewood.

“I’ll take a tent, and happily,” Oghren growled. “There’s not enough ceiling out here.”

Morrigan laughed. “I, as usual, shall see to my own accommodations,” she said, and wandered off.

It was a cold night, what with the ground still being snow-covered, but just spring-like enough that Carver decided to opt for a lack of tent as well, figuring enough bedding would make up for the lack of canvas. He, Alim and Alistair spread their bedrolls close to the fire, while the others took to their tents as soon as the meal was over.

“How was it, down in the tunnels?” Carver asked softly as he wiggled into a more comfortable position, having thought to place his bedroll so that his head was close to Alim’s.

“Long, dark, hot… and it stunk, most of the time. Of brimstone where there was lava, and of worse things where there was wildlife. Worst of all in the areas overrun with darkspawn,” he added darkly.

“Tell him about the broodmother,” Alistair said from the other side of the fire.

“Ugh, no, it’ll give him nightmares. Worse, it’ll give _me_ nightmares,” Alim said. But told him anyway, and when nightmares did disturb Alim’s sleep later that night, Carver was sure it wasn’t just from the storytelling, and moved his bedroll to where he could hold him close as he slept, pleased that Alim let him.

* * *

“I almost wish we were still up in the mountains near Haven again,” Alim said, wiping sweat off his forehead. “I’d kill for some snow and ice now.”

“It is rather on the hot and humid side here,” Alistair agreed, patting at his own sweat-beaded face.

“I rather like the heat; it reminds me of home,” Zevran said. “Though I agree the humidity is a bit much.”

Sten snorted. “This is a perfectly fine day; a little cool, if anything.”

“Says the man wearing barely anything,” Oghren pointed out. “At least with all these trees around there’s not so blighted much sky.”

“I am dressed appropriately for the climate,” Sten said. “More of you could do with rather less in the way of armour.”

“I’d like to see that,” Zevran said, grinning. “Wynne, are you sure you do not need to shed a layer or two of your robes?”

Wynne didn’t even say anything in response to that, just glared at Zevran before returning her attention to the path ahead. “If what that trapper said was correct, we should be reaching that Dalish encampment soon,” she said.

Carver stayed out of the debate, just listening to it instead, and watching – mostly watching Alim, admiring his now suntanned skin and cheerful smile. The mage had lost most of his shyness since they’d first met, gaining in confidence over the course of their adventures. It looked good on him, Carver often thought, changing the way he walked, the way he moved, the way he exchanged banter with the others in the party.

Alim turned to look over the group of them, eyes lighting up and a smile briefly lifting his lips as his gaze met Carver’s. Carver smiled back. The two of them weren’t involved, much as he might sometimes wish they were, but… Alim was certainly aware of his interest, and hadn’t done anything yet to dissuade it. It was one area where they were both still shy, and both equally happy to take things slow. He wasn’t at all surprised when Alim dropped back a while later to walk beside him for a while, their hands sometimes brushing as they walked, Carver pointing out what few plants he recognized and telling Alim whatever he knew of their properties; whether or not they were edible, or had some medicinal use, that sort of thing. Morrigan dropped back to walk nearby as well, joining in on the conversation to correct or expand on what Carver knew.

“You know a surprising amount about herbs and medicinals for a simple farmer’s son,” she eventually observed.

Carver smiled and shrugged. “They were an interest of my father’s. My mother was skilled in the still-room as well, but mostly for things like mixing skin creams and perfumes, not medicines.”

“Did your sisters learn much from your father?” Alim asked.

“Bethany certainly did; he spent a lot of time training her. Marian had no interest at all, whether it was mixing medicines or makeup, and I mostly learned what little I did from hanging around with Bethany.”

“Alim? I think you’d better come here,” Alistair voice called from around the curve ahead of them.

“What is it?” Alim called back, concerned, as he picked up the pace.

“We found the elves. Or rather, they’ve found us,” Alistair responded.

* * *

Alistair stormed out of the throne room, face thunderous.

“I’ll go after him,” Carver told Alim, grabbing his hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “You get done what needs to be done.”

Alim nodded, face carefully impassive, quickly turning his attention back to the Landsmeet as Carver sprinted out after the other warden. Despite his speed, Alistair had already opened a considerable lead. He had to chase after him all the way back to Arl Eamon’s before he finally caught up with him.

“What do you think you’re _doing!?_ ” Carver demanded as he crashed into the taller man, pinning him against the wall of his room.

“I’m _leaving_ ,” Alistair snapped back, trying to push Carver away. “Recruiting _Loghain_ , of all people… how could he!”

“You’re being a fool is what you’re doing! How could he not, with the chance to do it there? You’ve told me yourself, more than once, that the wardens do what must be done to end a Blight, no matter what the cost of that might be. Were you just mouthing the words, or do you _mean it_ , Alistair?”

“I… but… Maker, not _Loghain_ ,” Alistair exclaimed, then suddenly looked away, his eyes brimming over with tears. “Duncan, Ostagar, _Cailan._..”

Carver wrapped his arms around him, drawing him close in a tight embrace. “If it was Duncan, what would he have done?” he asked, voice hard, knowing the answer.

Alistair shook in his arms. “Recruited him,” he finally said, his voice strangled, then broke down entirely. Unable to support his weight, Carver let the pair of them slide to the floor, holding Alistair while he sobbed, patting awkwardly at him until he finally quieted.

“They’ll all be back here soon,” Carver said. “We should get you cleaned up.”

“Yeah. Don’t want to face Loghain with snot all over my face,” Alistair agreed, and managed a weak smile. “Thanks for coming after me. That was… that was stupid. I’d have hated myself once I calmed down, for abandoning Alim and the others. Just… just don’t ask me to like it, Loghain becoming a Grey Warden.”

Carver nodded. By the time Alim and the others returned from the castle, he and Alistair had both washed up and changed into clean clothing, and Alistair had his expression back under firm control, only his grim expression and a slight redness and puffiness about his eyes betraying his earlier distress.

“We will perform the joining as soon as the cup is ready,” Riordan informed them. “Ser Loghain, I suggest you spend the time from now until then in prayer. Carver, Oghren, would you mind standing guard on him until then? I have much to speak of with Alim and Alistair.”

“Not at all,” Carver said. “Just one thing… will there be enough of the joining potion for two?”

Riordan blinked, looking surprised.

“Carver, no!” Alistair exclaimed, while Alim went white-faced in shock.

“It can perhaps stretch that far,” Riordan said, looking at him thoughtfully. “If you are sure?”

“To become a brother warden to Alistair and Alim? I am very sure,” Carver said, putting all the confidence he could manage into his voice, despite his fear.

“You don’t have to do this, Carver,” Alim said.

“But I want to,” Carver told him gently, and despite their audience reached out to take his hand. “It’s my choice to do so.”

Alim searched his face, then nodded and stepped forward, hugging him fiercely. “Your choice to make,” he agreed.

“Then I suggest you join Loghain in prayer as well,” Riordan said to Carver, before turning his attention to the two wardens. “Come, my friends, we will talk further while I oversee the mixing of the potion.”

* * *

He expected it to taste bitter, or have an aftertaste like corruption. It tasted of little at first, and then it burned, in his mouth, down his throat, spreading out from his stomach and through his veins. He could not have said if it burned like fire or like ice, only that it burned.

And then came the nightmares.

When he woke up, he could feel it – the presence of his brothers. One close at hand – Loghain stretched out on a cot in the same room as him – two at a distance, and one coming closer. He opened his eyes as the feeling of presence entered the same room, and smiled when he saw who it was.

“You idiot,” Alim said, blinking eyes that were red-rimmed from tears or lack of sleep or both. “Never scare me like that again,” he said, and sat down on the edge of the cot, before lying down to wrap his arms around Carver, embracing as much of him as he could.

“I’ll try,” Carver promised, voice rough, and embraced him as well, at that moment as happy as he’d ever been.

* * *

“This doesn’t feel right,” Carver said, accepting a piece of armour scavenged from the darkspawn, kneeling down to scrub it clean with a handful of fresh snow. He squinted up at the other three wardens gathered around him. “Shouldn’t this by rights go to Alistair?”

“I’d rather not,” Alistair said sombrely. “I’m perfectly happy with the armour I’m already wearing, while you’re still dressed in my old cast-offs.”

“Cailan would doubtless be amused, did he know,” Loghain said roughly. “His best suit of gilded mail being passed on to a farmer’s son.”

“Better worn by Carver than by darkspawn,” Alim said, looking nervously around, hands tightening on his staff. “There’s more near – east, towards the bridge.”

“Right. Let’s see if we can complete the set,” Alistair said, smiling crookedly at Carver as he gave him a hand back up.

They found another piece of armour before reaching the bridge. The bridge itself proved to be well-guarded, and it was only after the vicious fight to take it was over that they had the time to notice the main component of the vile decoration raised by the darkspawn in mid-spawn. Cailan’s body, as untouched by corruption as if he’d just died that day, rather then most of a year before.

As hard as it was for Alim and Carver to see, it was worse for Alistair and Loghain, his half-brother and the man who’d been almost a second father to him. The darkness of their mood could be felt through the blood bond, though for once they directed their anger at the darkspawn rather than each other. For the first time since Loghain had joined their party the two fought together instead of maintaining a careful distance, and their pairing proved almost as effective as that between Alim and Carver.

It was a quiet camp that night, after they’d seen Cailan laid on a proper pyre and travelled as far away from the ruins as they could before darkness set in. They lit no fire, and none of them slept, knowing there was likely still darkspawn about. Carver made himself comfortable sitting against a tree, Alim leaning back against him and their bedding wrapped around the both of them. Loghain, as was his habit, settled down at a distance from them. Alistair was clearly unsettled, shifting position time and time again before finally rising to his feet, gathering up his belongings, and stalking off into the darkness in the same direction Loghain had gone.

The murmur of their voices could be heard for some hours after that, sometimes rising in anger but mostly the quieter tones of a halting discussion. They were both pale-faced come dawn, and almost painfully polite with each other, yet the two marched side-by-side behind Alim and Carver that day, instead of one or the other of them trailing at a distance, some truce having clearly been reached between the pair.

* * *

They paused at the door out to the roof of Fort Drakon, the four wardens gathering together as Loghain pulled a flask from his belt. The bitter black brew of the dwarves, a drink of which pre-battle was an old custom going back to the time of Alistair’s grandmother, Queen Moira, one which Maric and Cailan had followed in their turn, the tradition of which Alistair had learned of from Loghain in the long weeks since his recruitment.

They had healed, the two of them, progressing from hating each other at first, then coming to reluctant admiration, and a fragile companionship in the end. Never likely to be true friends, not with all the ghosts that stood between them, not with how much Alistair disagreed with many of Loghain’s decisions, even if he now understood the reasoning behind most of them. But Alistair was no longer angry over Loghain having been recruited; Loghain was no longer filled with despair, but instead had hope that Ferelden would survive despite the missteps he’d made since King Maric’s disappearance.

The four of them worked well together, there on the roof, the three warriors taking it in turns to draw the Archdemon’s ire, making use of the potions Wynne had spent long hours brewing to keep them on their feet, so that Alim could concentrate more on destructive magics than healing. Loghain knew enough of siege engines to turn the roof catapults on the dragon whenever it tried to move out of range of them, and they wore it steadily down, until Alistair managed a lucky scrambling run up its back and brought the creature down.

Loghain claimed the killing blow, embracing the three of them in turn before running forward to slay the Archdemon, taking its soul to the Fade with his own, or wherever it was that its malevolent energy was drained to with such a strike.

“He lost his way for a while,” Alistair said at his funeral, dry-eyed. “But he died as he lived most of his life; for Ferelden.”


	3. Epilogue

Dear Marian,

I’m glad to hear that you’ve done so well for yourself up north. Mother must be very pleased over the recovery of the Amell estate. I’d say I was sorry to hear about Bethany but I’m not, not when Alim has already pulled strings to have her assigned here in Amaranthine; she should be joining us here at the Keep soon. I can hardly wait to see her again. Assure mother that Bethany and I will keep good care of each other, and that I want her to come visit both of us once Bethany is settled in; the Keep survived the battle with surprisingly little damage, thanks to the efforts of the dwarven engineers Alim had hired, and I should have little problem finding a guest suite for her.

Alim is pleased to hear that a certain mutual friend is all right, though he did spend several minutes raging about how he’s an idiot for stopping in Kirkwall of all places; when he sent him off it was to save his life, not in hopes that he’d choose the single worst place in all of Thedas for such as he to settle. Though I argue that Orlais or Tevinter could arguably have been even worse. Still… _Kirkwall_! Thank the Maker that Bethany is safely out of there! And give the mutual friend a hug from me and a smack upside the head from both Alim and Alistair.

Your loving brother,

Carver

* * *

Dear Brat,

I am pleased to hear that Bethany arrived safely and all is well down south. Mother has promised to write both of you herself soon; expect a care package of knit and baked goods to accompany her letters (the knit goods are the reason for the delay). I miss both of you dreadfully, since it’s just Mother and I here now. And the servants; Bodahn sends his regards and Sandal sends each of you a rock (see attached package – they seem neither runed nor enchanted so I have no idea what they’re for). We do seem to have a surprising number of mutual acquaintances.

Speaking of which, my friend Isabela tells me to send _both_ you and Alim her love (?) and remind you that the pair of your are ‘always welcome below-deck on any ship she captains’ (!). Just what adventures did you get up to during the Blight year that you’ve never told me about, brother dearest? I’ve tried asking Isabela but she just smiles and says she doesn’t kiss and tell, which I know from personal experience is a lie, and the wording of which obviously gives me suspicions. Just how many of the Heroes of Ferelden has she been knocking boots with? I’m guessing only two since she hasn’t mentioned any message for Alistair.

The alliterative mutual friend sends his usual greetings to the three of you, and said to ask after the rest of them as well. Too dangerous for them or him to write directly, but perhaps you could send me a long chatty letter with the latest news of all your brother- and sister-wardens, and I’ll see to it that pertinent bits get passed on.

I’m writing a separate letter to Bethany, but could you please help me out and tease her about her northern conquests; let her know that both Sebastian and Fenris have asked after her. The former of which is especially astonishing given she only met Sebastian the one time, and that briefly; apparently she made quite an impression on him. I’d be jealous if handsome archers were at all to my taste.

Speaking of Bethany, ask her to tell you the story of the murder of Ninette de Carrac, and why that meant we all went into a bit of a panic here when a suitor of mother’s sent her a bouquet of lilies. Thank the Maker that Mother has a most excellent memory for details and had heard the story from me previously. I won’t tell you or Bethany the ugly details of all of what went on recently, it was unspeakably vile, but be assured mother (and all other women of Kirkwall) are safe from any further depredations by the man responsible for Ninette’s death.

Looking forward to hearing from you again soon,

Marian

* * *

Dear Marian,

Word has reached us about recent events in Kirkwall; thank the Maker that mother was visiting us here! Bethany and I both shudder to think of what might have happened to her if she’d still been in Kirkwall when the qunari went on their rampage. Our mutual friend sent a note to us on the first boat he could that you had survived and were expected to recover fully; a great relief considering the news we’ve heard since of your fight with the Arishok.

Word from you directly would greatly reassure mother; it is only with considerable effort that Bethany and I have kept her from heading back north on the first ship she could find. Let us know whether or not it is safe for her to return. From what we’ve heard of events in the city, we cannot help but think that remaining in Ferelden might be safer for her, though it would be a blow to her to abandon her life at the estate.

Your loving brother,

Carver

* * *

Dear Carver,

I begin to regret ever having moved here at all. The atmosphere in the city gets worse and worse from day to day; Meredith’s templars are taking an increasingly firm grip on the city, and many are unhappy about it. I sometimes think it is only my title as Champion of Kirkwall and my known relationship to one of the Heroes of Ferelden that has stopped her from making any move against me or those known to be my friends and allies. As you said some years ago, thank the Maker that Bethany is safely out of this city!

As much as I miss both of you and mother, I am very relieved that the two of you talked her into moving back to Ferelden. She’s sent me several long letters describing the house you and Alim found for her in Amaranthine, and it and its gardens sounds quite lovely. The estate here seems so empty without her, despite our mutual friend having taken up residence with me. I would give it up entirely and move into a much smaller place were it not so convenient to both Hightown and his place of work.

Fenris has spoken of perhaps accompanying Isabela on her next trip to Amaranthine, which should be soon given the lengthy wish-list of furnishings from the estate that mother has asked if I might send to her. All of which she’ll be receiving, since it’s of neither real nor sentimental value to _me._ In other words, don’t be surprised if a tattooed elf shows up at Vigil’s Keep in the near future hoping to see our Bethany; unlike Sebastian his interest in her has not faded in the years since she left.

Perhaps I’ll find the time to make a journey back to Ferelden myself some time, and finally meet your Alim and Alistair and all the others. It will of course depend on how events go here. These are dark days in the north.

Love from your sister,

Marian

* * *

``

To carVer an my deaREst Bethany;

WorD of eveNs in Kirkwall haV doubtlis reached yoU by now. yoUr sistrE is wel but haz fleed wiTh the mAGe. Seabeastnn haz offeRed me work in StaRkhaavn. i will wriT fuRther when i can.

FEnRis


End file.
